


Nor Iron Bars

by tzigane, Zaganthi (Caffiends)



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Bondage, Chains, Community: kink_bingo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-03
Updated: 2010-09-03
Packaged: 2017-10-20 05:26:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/209221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tzigane/pseuds/tzigane, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caffiends/pseuds/Zaganthi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the suit, and the hair, and the hat he was carrying -- not wearing, because he was indoors and most people forgot that rule these days. He didn't look as old as his hair color suggested, and he looked pretty solid under the charcoal gray suit and purple shirt. It was the shirt that caught his eye, really. Purple. Seriously, the last time he'd seen a man that comfortable in a purple shirt, it had been a young politician from Kansas.</p><p>Greg would have laid him, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nor Iron Bars

Greg got the weird cases.

He figured it was because half of nightshift probably thought about him as Grissom mini -- too much science, not enough cop, stupid about personal safety, obsessive about weird shit, though Greg liked to think that mobsters were more fun than bugs. He could certainly use it in conversation without getting 'how dare you discuss it over food' looks. But after a night of weird cases, after days and days of weird cases, Greg sometimes got to rest.

And when he rested, it still pretty much involved book research in casinos and just around Vegas. He was always looking for the guys who might hold a part of a story, and it tended to be older guys, older women. That was okay with him; truth be told, Greg had always been partial to dating older people, although there was admittedly kind of a cutoff point. He never wanted to date anybody as old as his Poppa or his Isoäiti. That was a little much, even for him.

This guy, though. He looked like somebody Greg might end up interviewing for a case or information about gangsters, and equally enough like someone he'd be interested in fucking. The overlap of those things might seem incongruous to anyone else, but it pretty much summed up life according to Greg. He'd been sitting at a bar on the casino floor, watching people go by. It was a good way to pass the time, and sometimes he met interesting people that way. When he'd seen the man coming his way, his stomach had flipped and his curiosity had automatically been piqued.

It was the suit, and the hair, and the hat he was carrying -- not wearing, because he was indoors and most people forgot that rule these days. He didn't look as old as his hair color suggested, and he looked pretty solid under the charcoal gray suit and purple shirt. It was the shirt that caught his eye, really.

Purple. Seriously, the last time he'd seen a man that comfortable in a purple shirt, it had been a young politician from Kansas.

Greg would have laid him, too.

At first, he thought the man would pass by in the wave of tourists, but instead he ducked into the small patisserie and got in line. Greg decided that he'd consider it an omen if he turned in his direction on the way out, and so he'd get up and conveniently bump into him.

It was hands down the best people-watching lead he'd had the whole time, and even if the guy was probably a tourist, that shirt and the air the guy had about him was impressive. Plus, the pastries in there were really good, and too many tourists gave the place a miss.

Greg was mostly giving the place a miss so he wouldn't binge and go into a sugar-shock coma, because if he did he'd never live it down at the lab, and his self-control was kind of iffy after that many workdays.

"Is this seat taken?"

He nearly jumped out of the chair, because how had he missed the guy coming out? And how had he known that Greg was watching for him, anyway? "Ah, no. I was just sitting here. You know. Watching the crowd."

"For notorious criminals, parole jumpers, or none of the above?" He put his back to the bar itself, leaning on it with one arm and only tilting a little towards Greg. The small bag in his hand smelled like fresh baking, warm bread, and Greg's stomach growled, making him smile sheepishly.

"For interesting people to talk to, truth be told. There's just me. Have a seat." At that time of morning, there were at least one or two free chairs. "Would you like some coffee, or a drink? I know it's early for most people, but it's late for me." And the painted ceiling stretching high above, faux Paris skyline along the edges of the hotel, made it seem like dusk no matter what time of day it actually was.

"Nightshift then. You looked like you'd been awake for some time." Sitting down was as easy as a shift of his body onto one of the deep seated, high-backed chairs. Stools would've been easier, but probably less inviting to get people to spend money. "My first day here, I realized it was impossible to wake up before the city wakes up."

"They call New York the city that never sleeps, but I've been to New York. I've got to tell you, Vegas beats that out. I'm Greg, Greg Sanders." He held out his hand, and the older man shook it. "So... coffee?"

"Coffee would be fine. I'm Michael Xavier." Except, kind of not at all sounding like a Michael to Greg, or an Xavier, but it kind of went with Greg's internal narrative. Classy looking guy, bag of pastry, fake name.

Maybe this would end up some kind of bizarre spy fantasy before the night was through.

He lifted his hand, caught the waitress's attention. It only took a moment to get coffee for both of them, and to settle back in. "So, Michael Xavier. How are you liking Las Vegas?"

"One of my better vacations." Which, for all Greg knew, included a sliding scale of murders and war-zones, but that was just the fun paranoid voice in the back of his head that liked that idea. "Croissant?" Well, trading coffee for croissant seemed okay, and Michael did have two in the bag that he was pointing, open, at Greg.

"Thanks. Everything over there is pretty good. There's this chocolate mousse raspberry thing that might just be a mortal sin." He reached in and took one, leaning back in his chair. "So how long are you staying?"

"Another week, I think." Like he had that kind of flexible schedule. His eyes were very bright, clear sharp blue, and he didn't really have that many lines on his face. So, probably retired, or something like it, and on the fresh end of it.

Exactly what Greg liked.

"So." He couldn't keep himself from grinning. "How's the company been?" It never hurt to ask, and he took a bite of the croissant. It practically melted in his mouth.

It had been worth asking, from the way the guy cocked an eyebrow at him while he took out his own croissant and set it on a napkin before breaking an end off. "That's a question I could take a few ways, answer a few ways, and completely avoid the gist of your question. It's an interesting city, yes, I'm traveling alone, and you're a very good looking young man with ridiculous hair."

Oh, yes. "Thank you. You're a very good looking older man with ridiculous hair, and extremely nice eyes." Also, he quite liked that purple shirt. It tended to grow on a man.

He had a pretty nice smile, too, easy, not symmetrical, which was good because Greg always associated symmetrical smiles with serial killers and people who were lying about something. It wasn't normal. "I think those particular cowlicks have been passed through the family for generations. It never stops being ridiculous." Not-possibly-named-Michael took a sip of the coffee, leaning an elbow on the table. "Is this where the local police force comes to pick up tourists?"

"This is where the local police force comes to sit and watch tourists. I'm actually a crime scene investigator. Is it that obvious?" Probably. "And I've got kind of a thing for old Vegas. Most of the time, I don't hang out at places quite this new."

"Old Vegas doesn't mingle with new Vegas very often?" Not too often. Not unless someone from old Vegas was a Sam Braun type who carried on and on and up and up without getting iced.

"Not so you'd notice, no, but I try not to be completely predictable. Therefore..." Greg waved a hand. "Here I am, in gay Paris. So to speak."

"So to speak," Michael agreed, almost laughing a little as he took another bite of his croissant. "Don't worry. You don't scream 'police'. I recognized your face from a few days ago after one of those rallies... well, ended the only way I'd expect them to end. With a body outlined in chalk."

That had been miserable. Two dead humans, one dead mutant, and over what? One kind of people thinking they were better and had more rights than another kind of people. Sometimes, his job sucked. "It's sad when things end like that. They don't have to, but..." Greg shrugged. "People are kind of stupid. All people."

"Yes, they are. They always have been, and I think they will always continue to be so." He looked sad, right across the eyes, though it slid back when he took another sip of his coffee, sitting back his chair. "After Genosha, one would think both sides would take a step back. But, instead, you're out there tagging bodies." Well, not quite tagging, but close enough. That was Super Dave's job that night. He'd been tasked with making sure that blue blood was actually blood and relatively human and yeah.

Yeah, that had sucked. "Personally, there are atrocities all through history that ought to stand up and yell _Don't Be A Dick_. People are people. I mean, don't get me wrong. Genetics play a factor in who and what you become, I mean, there are genetic deficiencies that are linked to violent behavior, but...." Greg sipped his coffee. "That's not visible from the outside. That's just people, human, mutant, alien, whatever. And I've always kinda felt like nurture could win out over nature, whether you've got that kind of gene or not."

"I have a friend who's of a similar belief. I'm not sure what I think any longer." But he seemed non-argumentative, and there was the return of the crooked, easy smile. "Though, life would be much simpler if everyone followed the 'don't be a dick' policy. Myself included."

He didn't bother trying to bite back his grin. "Yeah, well. I try, but some days it gets away from me. Mostly it's good to remember what you'd wanna be treated like if it was you out there. I... had a really good teacher when I started working in the field."

"Good teachers are important." He sounded a little wistful, while he finished off his croissant. "So, since I've established that you're not a serial killer..."

"Did I eat my croissant to suit you?" Greg looked at him through his eyelashes. "I was pretty sure you weren't a serial killer to start with. If you had been...." Grissom would have shown up and started making eyes at him. "Well. That's a long story."

"A good long story, or a bad long story?" He was smiling, though, and toying with the last of his coffee.

"A long story that's not worth telling if you were interested in going somewhere else now that we've had coffee and breakfast." Being forward didn't hurt anything. Most of the time.

"Well. Conveniently, I happen to have a hotel room that's available, as you're interested." Because smart, smirking guy with the nice taste in clothes was the best option for getting laid that he'd hit on in at least a few weeks.

Oh, yes. "Sure. Just let me..." He lifted a hand, gesturing to the waitress again. It would take a few minutes, but they had that.

He was starting to feel nice, mellow, kind of settled and kind of slowly winding up with anticipation, because Michael was looking at him, letting his eyes travel, lingering at Greg's mouth, his neck, his shoulders, like he was putting together a plan. It made him shiver just a little, and he shifted in his seat, trying to adjust himself with the squirming. The look alone was getting him hard, and by the time their waitress came back around, he was grateful to pay her and stand to leave.

"I'll follow you."

He didn't say anything, but the look on his face, the torque of his mouth, the way his eyes went bright when he lifted his eyebrows at Greg was as good as a beckoning when he stood up and moved through the light crush of people towards the elevators, where things started to peter off.

He walked straight through and paused, hitting the call button. They lingered there together, quiet with rising expectation until an elevator came down and people spilled outwards, leaving it empty for them. Michael stepped inside and pressed the button for his floor. Greg wasn't paying much attention to which one it was -- he was too busy noticing that the doors were closing without anybody else coming in with them, and he glanced to the side, licking his lips.

"Elevators are considered such private spaces. No one talks in them." Except for Michael, who was talking to talk in the elevator. He looked deeply relaxed when it dinged, and slowly pulled to a halt.

"There are a lot of things you'd be surprised that people do in them. All things considered." Kill people. Fuck them, and that was a nice fantasy, but not one for big hotels, no. Well. Not in Vegas, but maybe in the middle of the night in Bumfuck, Egypt.

Then again, elevator fucking in Egypt was probably frowned on.

"There's very little that surprises me." The words had a wry turn to them, and Michael stepped off, reaching into his back pocket. It looked like he had a cigarette case, instead of a wallet. Interesting, old-fashioned, eclectic: all of those words came immediately to mind, sparking an even greater interest than before.

"Life's not fun without all of its little surprises, though." At least in Greg's opinion.

"This is terribly true." He was smiling, opening the case and pulling out a key card when he stopped at what Greg was guessing was his door. "What do you think of bondage?"

His heart picked up, triple beats. "I've always been a little paranoid about who I let tie me up, but...." Greg looked at the hallways spoking outwards, then back at Michael. "Sometimes a guy has to live a little."

He pushed the door open, holding it for Greg. Greg was used to the nice white faux french rooms, and the penthouse-style suites, but this seemed kind of in between and nice. Traceable, hopefully not a place to dump a body. It was maybe morbid that it crossed his mind at all. "Yes. Do you have a word you use? I won't cover your mouth. I think that would actually be a shame to do with you."

"I suggest we go with the fairly standard red, yellow, green." He felt the grin sneak over his mouth. "Although I've gotten kind of accustomed to using Chicken Little."

"If 'the sky is falling' doesn't mean stop, I don't know what it could mean," Michael smiled, letting him wander into the room a little bit, closing the door behind him. Greg'd had bondage sex with a complete stranger a total of four times in his life, five if he counted a less than complete stranger in Lady Heather, though she was really strange.

He stopped at the foot of the bed and turned to look at Michael, tilting his head to the side. "Pretty much my thoughts exactly." Yeah, and he wondered if Michael traveled with bondage gear, and what the guys at the airport probably thought about that these days. Still, his curiosity leant more towards the being shown part of things, and a little less towards being told, so he reached up and brushed a hand across the top button of his shirt, plucking it open with thumb and forefinger.

He watched Michael set his hat down on the chair just inside the door, shrugging his suit coat off. His eyes were fixed on Greg while he did it, so Greg slowly plucked open the next button down, and he hadn't really guessed wrong that it would get Michael to move because he was closing the space between them, taking Greg's jaw in one hand while he kissed him.

There was a reason he loved dating older men, and it could be summed up in one word: experience. Older women, too, and the way that Michael kissed him was fantastic, purely consummate in ways that made his knees just a little weak. Greg parted his lips and let him inside, let him control it, only trying to take control himself once. Once was all it took to know that wasn't going to be allowed, and that knowledge went straight to his cock.

He wasn't in control and that was okay, because he didn't want to be in control, he wanted to give up, go under a little, and Michael was probably going to oblige and leave him in all the right pieces when he was done if the way his hand moved from Greg's jaw to the nape of his neck was any suggestion, because there was control, sure, but a soft touch, too, his other hand unbuttoning Greg's shirt the rest of the way.

"Oh..." This was going to be everything he'd been missing lately, and he gave in to it. Let Michael slide his fingers inside of his shirt, brush it open and out of the way. His palm settled against Greg's side, curved so that his fingers rested against his back and then pulled him in with undeniable strength.

Part of Greg wanted to see if he could get away with getting that purple shirt off of Michael, but he was kissing Greg again, backing him against the bed until Greg felt the mattress against the back of his calves and decided that he could just bend and go with it now that his shirt was on the floor. Michael had warm hands, and his fingertips were lingering at the top band of Greg's jeans.

Settling back, he lifted his hips when Michael tugged, denim sliding off of slim hips and down his thighs, boxers with them. Gooseflesh shivered into existence, the air in the room just a touch too cool for naked flesh. He was pretty sure it was going to get hot and sweaty in there soon, so that would be okay. Michael set Greg's pants on the floor, and he started to unbutton his own shirt. He'd have to fish the bondage gear out, but that was okay, because Greg was feeling pretty relaxed. "You're a very good looking young man. I'm hard pressed to believe you're not settled down with someone."

Yeah. Him, too, sometimes. "There was someone. Things didn't work out." That was life, it was the way things were sometimes. It had sucked, and he'd been angry and depressed, and then he'd gotten over it, and now he was going to get laid. "But that's all right. That just means I'm free to be here right now."

Blue eyes were turning really blue, sharply blue, almost a glow, and if Michael hadn't kept moving it would've been very creepy, but he was letting his shirt hit the floor, stepping out of his shoes while he unbuckled his belt. "Still. It's a shame."

Off to his left, he heard a clinking noise, and it was a length of narrow chain coming out from under the bed to wrap around his forearm.

Holy fucking cow.

For a second, he was dumbfounded, surprised stupid. Maybe even longer than a second, but then he managed to get his brains in gear and his first real thought was a lot more eloquent than that. Mostly, it had to do with how fucking awesome it was that he was having sex with a mutant who could do _that_.

"There we go, I was wondering how you'd take that surprise." He could hear the other length of chain coming up. It wasn't really heavy, just cool on his skin, wrapping multiple loops over his wrists and forearms, putting his arms into a loose spread eagle. It couldn't have taken him much concentration, because he was still sliding his pants off, and then his underwear like it was just normal, to be moving chains around. La dee da.

"Yeah, well. It was all I could do not to yell at first, mostly about how damn cool it is." Because really, it kind of was. Greg had always wished he had some kind of mutant ability, preferably one that made working with DNA a little easier. So what if it was cheating? It still would have been awesome.

He watched the curve of Michael's smile quirk, apparently pleased with Greg's words. "How damn cool it is. We have come a long way to reach that point." The chains tightened a little, and he leaned down over Greg's body, placing a kiss against his navel that made him draw in a deep breath in response.

"Thought the same thing ten years ago." Greg had always been kind of different, though. It probably didn't surprise anybody who knew him. "That's... very nice." That was a bit of an understatement. He felt, felt and saw a long-fingered hand slide up his belly, stroking over his chest, and Michael kissed his chest now, moving up, apparently getting comfortable kneeling over Greg.

"Mmmm. That's very nice." Extraordinarily nice, and he licked his lips, shivering with each light touch of that mouth. It made him shimmy a little, knees falling open in response to every new touch. He hadn't bound Greg's legs, just his hands, so Greg was going to take that as a cue. Michael wanted his legs mobile, for what Greg hoped was nefarious purposes. He was focusing on Greg above the waist, though, kissing his way up to Greg's neck, kissing the edge of his jaw, and finally his mouth.

Greg didn't notice the pressure on his nipples until it started. Slow and tight, squeezing until he whimpered, and then gasped as it quickened, making his back arch up in reaction. "Fuck!" Fuck, and yes, yes, that was... oh god, that was a yes, and also a no, and he brought his legs up, wrapping them around Michael's, pressing himself closer.

That was something he'd done right, because he felt Michael give the oddest startled exhale, and then he finally rocked his hips down against Greg, a hard grind. "I should pin your knees to your chest. You'd look pretty like that."

Pretty, but he wouldn't be able to get closer to him, wouldn't be able to rock just like that, horny and hot and wanting. Wanting more, although maybe not tighter, and then whatever he was doing to clamp down on Greg's nipples tightened just a smidge more, and he couldn't help crying out, hands clenching tightly. At air, at nothing, and then the chains, sliding over his palms, something to clutch tight to when the pressure released and Michael reached a hand between his legs to touch Greg's dick with a gentleness that didn't fit the flood of sensation into his nipples.

"Jesus fuck." And then some, because he was shivering in reaction to it, and he had a foot hooked around Michael's knee so he could rock up, keep him in close proximity. Keep him close enough for them to be skin to skin, and that hand slid down, cupped his balls, and maybe that ought to make him nervous, all things considered.

The maddening part was that Greg was used to looking at the equipment. It was all pretty familiar, all pretty easy, because nipple clamps had some kind of spring, and these didn't, and then they tightened again, just a little, and started to vibrate and all he could do was buck against that hand when he felt cool metal slip around his balls, the base of his cock.

"You're going to kill me. I'm going to die, very, very pleasurably." He still had the ability to form words, and that probably wasn't normal, but Greg could almost always talk. "Oh god that's so good." So good and he planted a foot firmly, rocking towards Michael hopefully.

Obviously he had damn good taste in partners. He should do this more often.

"Good. I want it to be good." Michael leaned back a little, and Greg watched his cigarette case float up from the floor, opening for him before a little foil wrapped condom came out of it and it shut again. All while Michael ran hands over his sides, looking at Greg's nipples.

Damn. This was just... every dirty fantasy he had ever had, all wrapped up in one experience. There was no way anything could possibly ever come up to this, not ever, and he gasped sharply as the clamps tightened again, making him shudder and push upwards. "Fuuuck." Fuck, and his cock was hot, swollen, pressing against the rings wrapped around him.

He closed his eyes somewhere in there, had to, gasping through it and writhing a little to get more sensation, more everything, because he missed Michael getting the lube, but he wasn't surprised when he felt a slicked finger pressing lightly against his asshole. Greg was surprised when Michael leaned back up the length of his body to kiss him, hard, his hands at Greg's hips while that finger kept moving, kept pressing into him, seeking, searching. Finding, and that was when the second finger slipped in, all of it timed perfectly to the slick thrust of tongue and the steady rub of his thigh against Greg's. He'd curse, he'd pant, he'd do so many things, except his lips and tongue were fully occupied with the way Michael was kissing him, opening him up in ways he either hadn't known was possible or had somehow managed to forget since the last time he'd had sex this good.

All he wanted was to give up everything, let Michael do anything to him, and he was, because stop lights and Chicken Little weren't words in his mind, but fuck and please and more were all swallowed by Michael's mouth while fingers rubbed at his prostate while both of Michael's hands were on his hips, guiding the grinding that Greg couldn't come from doing because his cock was ringed in metal.

It was held tight, the most unique kind of pressure he'd ever felt. His whole world was wrapped up in pleasure, in wanting to be fucked open, and he couldn't stop the half-murmured, mostly swallowed whimpers and moans, pleading and begging. Wanting, because the fingers were good, fantastic, fucking amazing, but cock would be so much better.

It was maybe enough pleading, because Michael pulled back and the fingers in his ass pulled out, and while the foil wrapper opened itself, the condom needed attention to put on. Michael was fast, though, shifting to tilt Greg's hips so he could push in, kneeling between his legs.

"Thank God." Thank God and then some, because he was so ready, so very ready, and when he started to push in, it was good. It made him tense a little, resisting, and then he set both feet firmly against the mattress and opened himself up to the thrust of it, moaning.

Michael groaned, leaning forward, one hand on the bed to steady himself and the other on Greg's hip, still, stroking skin idly when his hips pressed against Greg's ass hard, like he could get any deeper at all before he started to pull back.

God.

Oh, god, that was good, and he thought it was damn near unbearable for Michael to pull out, and it was unbearable for him to push back in. Too much sensation, nipples, cock, ass, and Greg shuddered, the enjoyment rising steadily. He wanted to come, wanted to come five minutes ago, maybe more, but the thrusts were starting to steady, to hit a rhythm, and he couldn't even move his hands to touch broad shoulders, to goad him on like he would've under normal circumstances but it definitely wasn't normal circumstances.

A hand on his hip turned to fingers clutching at the side of his thigh, bending him a little more, the thrusting turning a little faster while the nipple clamps went loose again, the chains around his cock went slack.

"Oh, yes, yes, yes, fuck, thank god, thank you, fuck, I..." Loved that, loved it, hands clutching hard at the chains still in his palms, pushing up to meet Michael's cock with every shove. Just that extra speed, shove met with push, both of them driving hard towards orgasm, because it had just been too long since Greg had gotten laid last and he liked the guy's size, just right, and the out of control edge of it coming up on him, making him yell.

The people next door probably hated his guts, but he didn't care. Didn't care, because every time he got a little louder, Michael pushed into him harder, and holy fuck. Fuck, fuck, "Fuck! Please! Please, just... I want... please fucking, fucking...."

It was probably way too early for that kind of shit.

"Yes, yes, yes..." Precise, but he was panting, and pushing Greg harder and then he was coming, finally, half aware in the background that the nipple clamps were giving him one last tweak.

Fuuuuuck yes.

He was a sweaty mess, tired, blissed out, fucked out, and he was seriously... "I think maybe I should propose after that."

Michael laughed, pulling out slowly, letting the chains around Greg's wrists slide off and fall to the floor like they were as spent as he was. "Vegas, land of the exceptionally tasteless wedding chapel. You... were quite good, thank you."

"Oh, no. Thank you. And you're welcome. And if you're gonna be around a little longer... another few hours, even... we could always do it again." Michael seemed like the kind of man who'd be able to do that without any problem.

Michael shifted, and then stretched to sprawl out beside Greg on the bed. "We could. We should, actually, if you're interested." Not right off, because wow, he was going to feel mellow and blissed out for a good while, and not having to fuck and run was always nice. Very nice, and he sighed, spreading his limbs to cool off a little.

"That sounds fantastic." And then some. He'd have to be at work tonight, but sometimes a man had to make adjustments to his life, make choices. Getting laid so well that he walked bowlegged for a couple of shifts was worth how tired he'd be.

"It's oddly infrequently that things work out this well." So, when the blinds closed themselves, and Michael seemed content to lie there stretched out with his eyes closed, Greg decided maybe he could get a little sleep in before the next go.

If he was lucky, maybe it would be just as spectacular.

* * *

  
He'd stumbled home and had a good long nap before it was time to go to work. Greg was grateful for small favors, like the fact that Nick had called him to ask if he'd bring a game into the office for him to borrow after he'd managed to slap his alarm clock into silence.

When a guy was running late, though, the last thing he expected was sudden, crazy access control, the back door closed and everyone directed around to a side door with two officers checking IDs even when they knew everyone already.

"Hey, Metcalf. What's going on?" Because there was paranoia and then there was the twitchy look on the guy's face. Never mind the way O'Malley was looking around, his fingers way too close to his sidearm for Greg's comfort.

"Homeland security was going over the tapes from the mutant rallies, and spotted Magneto on the film. So we're up to some crazy level of security that won't do us shit all good anyway. They gave us ceramic bullets, but the guns are still metal. What fucking idiot office worker thought that was a plan?" Metcalf glanced at his IDs, plural, nodded, and O'Malley popped the door open for Greg.

Magneto. That was kind of scary, because he was well known for the way he felt about humans, and yeah. Ceramic bullets, and it didn't really hit him until he was walking into the locker room to put away his things.

Holy fucking shit.

Holy **fucking** fucking **_shit_**.

"Hey, Greg...? Greg? Hey, man, you look kind of..." Nick wasn't sure what he looked and Greg wasn't sure how he was, because holy shit. Holy shit. Maybe he was just going crazy, and a picture would help. Maybe it was just a hell of a coincidence.

"Sorry. Sorry, just. I was having a moment." Of pure crazy fucked-up-ness. "So. Rumor has it we had a pretty special guest in Vegas."

"Yeah. The guy was supposed to be dead after that island went up, so this is a play it close to the hilt kind of panic. New York is used to this crap, but we're not." Nick didn't look too particularly nervous, but Greg figured if he waited long enough it might show. "It's like having a visiting natural disaster, you know?"

No kidding. It was enough to make his hair stand on end. "You know, I'm not even sure I know what the guy looks like. Do we have any pictures or anything to identify him? I mean, if he's been laying low, pretending to be dead all this time, why show up now?"

"Got bored? Thought no one was looking? Is doing surveillance on targets before he hits them and kills a ton of humans?" Or he was bored, planning on staying for a couple of weeks, and liked croissants.

And gay sex.

"Picture's posted on the bulletin board with the other must-stop-if-seen-s."

Seriously, what exactly was he supposed to do if it really was him? Spill his guts and turn the man in? After sex like that? "Thanks, man. I'll go take a look. You have any idea what we're looking at tonight?" He shoved his bag in his locker and spun the dial.

"Spreading panic and a lot of stupid decisions as this news spreads," Nick shrugged. "Got a burglary at a jewelry store all for you."

"Great. I'm so excited." It could be worse. He'd gone out to dig through a dumpster a few nights back, after all. "See you in a bit. I'm gonna go check out the board."

"Right." Nick was giving him a hairy eyeball, but Nick wouldn't ask why Greg was looking at the board when he'd never before had an interest in it except if he was chewing through a candybar while pondering if he wanted to fight the vending machine and get it to give him a soda, too.

Yeah, okay, so he'd just sidle over, look through the pictures on the wall. There were dozens of them, mutants and humans alike, but he'd put good money on the likelihood that Magneto would be front and center, grabbing attention from everyone that passed by the bulletin board.

And there he was, front and fucking center. It was kind of an old-looking photo of him, maybe from the eighties, but he still looked like... the guy he'd had really awesome sex with a few hours ago. White hair, blue eyes, wicked, wicked smug look on his face.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

And then some.

Greg knew what he ought to do; he ought to march in there, tell Catherine he'd seen the guy, and be a standup law enforcement representative. The thing was... Magneto. Michael Xavier. He'd been heading out tonight, anyway, and he had a feeling that he really had left. That it was all about the rallies that had been going on, not about coming in and blowing up Vegas.

He hadn't even done anything. He'd came, he'd seen...

Except Greg was pretty sure they'd at least track down where he was. If they were checking tapes, if they were looking, and they'd work out that he'd had company. Maybe it was better to spill before he was labeled an accomplice whenever someone put it together in a few weeks.

Shit.

For a second, he wondered if the sex had been worth it, but hell. It totally had. He'd like to have that sex again, without the whole confessing to Catherine part of it.

Tonight was going to suck, on so very many levels.

Greg stared at the picture for a couple of seconds more, before he turned to go stick his head in Catherine's office. The only question was how to say it once he got her attention. _'Hey, I had a hot date this morning'_ was probably the worst opening line he could ever use.

Then again, it was kind of true. He seriously hoped he'd get to have sex like that again sometime.

He just hated it probably wouldn't be with Michael.

Catherine was in her office, frowning down at the sheets for the night. That look didn't make him any less nervous, even when he dropped down into the chair across from her. "So." He cleared his throat nervously.

"So?" She lifted her head, a little startled. "Greg. I thought Nicky was going to give you your assignment..." And leave her to the paperwork.

"Yeaaah, but then I got to work, and it was hard to get inside, and there was a picture of the guy I picked up sitting in Paris people-watching this morning. So, I figured I might kind of be obligated to tell you how I spent my day."

"How... you spent your day." Catherine echoed what he was saying, like she didn't understand, but then she leaned her elbows on her desk and gave him a hard look. "All right, Greg. Spill."

What the hell. "So. I had this hot date this morning." He paused. "With Magneto. Or, you know, a guy who looked suspiciously like Magneto." Yeah. He wasn't going to talk about the nipple clamps. "It was really great sex, Catherine. I kind of think he was just taking a vacation."

He'd never seen Catherine look quite that startled and shocked before, but it was a memory he was going to hold onto once he was being debriefed by whatever crazies were going to ruin his night.

Well.

At least the sex really had been just that good.


End file.
